The Well of My Forgiveness Has Dried Up
by sunsetdreamer
Summary: She has realized that they always held because both of them wanted to hold, even when they were scared and confused, and when one half of the centre simply stops giving a damn, that is when things fall apart.
1. Chapter 1

I've got one legit author's note and one rant. Feel free to skip over one or the other or both to get to the story.

**Author's Note: **Okay, so I updated a different story today and had this huge, epic rant right there in the author's note, and after I posted it I was like, "What are you _doing_? This doesn't even have anything to do with your story." So I went back and cut it all out, but there were a couple things I typed that I couldn't quite get out of my head. And so I gave myself an hour and a half to write a piece (I seriously have like, at least forty pages of essays left to do, and the last day of class is next Thursday. I don't know why I insist on screwing myself over like this) and this is what came out. There will be a second part posted probably exactly a week from now… that's when the last of my papers will be in for the semester and I can work on it without kind of wanting to cut myself because I _know _I should be doing other things.

**Rant/Explanation: **Does anyone watch CSI: NY? I mean, not necessarily now because it's not that great anymore… they kind of stopped trying after they let Danny and Lindsay get married. Anyway, my point is, I feel like this whole weird Booth business is really reminiscent of when Danny cheated on Lindsay. Yeah; remember watching that scene for the first time – seeing Danny coming out of the bedroom all half nekkid throwing together omelettes in the kitchen – and grinning because you _knew _Lindsay was waiting in the bedroom? And thennnn the phone rang. And it was Lindsay on the other end. And while you were still going "…umm, huh?" thennnn out came Next Door Neighbour. Ouch. It ripped out my heart and I could not, could not get my head around it. And after that there were a million angsty stories posted revolving around that episode and Danny's shitty behaviour in the ones following it, and some of them were _brilliant_. Like, those stories where the writer just captures _everything _about the characters flawlessly, you know? And I was loving the angst and the poignancy of it all (fanfiction wise, NOT actual-episode wise), and then this story came out that just blew everything out of the water. I don't even remember what it was called or who wrote it, but she had this author's note that was like, "Yeah, Danny's an ass. But why do we have to have Lindsay crying over him all the time? I want her to be as pissed at him as I am." And I remember just stopping and being like… she's right. Seriously. She's _so _right. Which brings me back around to Bones.

After the 100th episode (which I loved, LOVED, btw) I felt sympathy for both of them. I saw two different sides, two broken hearts, and I thought it was just beautiful. They were still them back then. Kind of. Sometimes. Now it's just… ugh. The whole family has fallen apart. Anyway, so that's my rant and my motivation for this piece. Like I said it will be in two parts, because I am absolutely incapable of leaving things off without a ray of hope shining at the end (I mean, real life is depressing enough… I like angst as much as the next girl but there's got to be some resolution at the end of it all) I hope nobody stones me after this. I feel like it's going to be pretty love it or hate it. Everyone's got a right to their opinion. It'd be nice if you liked it though, lol. :)

* * *

**The Well of My Forgiveness Has Dried Up**

_Thank you for making me  
feel like I am guilty;  
making it easier to murder your sweet memory.  
Before I go, tell me,  
were you ever who you claimed yourself to be?  
Either way I must say good-bye.  
You're dead to me._

_**The Undertaker,**__ Puscifer_

They're all standing on the platform around the metal table and it's uncomfortable, but no one draws any attention to that fact because it's been uncomfortable for weeks and they're all getting used to it. Like seasonal asthma or shin splints or bones that ache when it rains. Human beings are adaptable.

It's Hodgins that sparks the spiral. Because he's so happy with Angela and he just wants to believe that they can all be happy as a unit again if someone just gets the ball rolling. So he does. And that gargantuan ball starts rolling and it keeps rolling, and it crushes them all.

"So, are you bringing Hannah with you to the banquet next Saturday?" He asks with a conspiratorial grin.

Angela gives him a look that tells him she thinks he's being insensitive, and he shrugs. Cam and Booth exchange a whole different look and Booth clears his throat after they have a silent conversation.

"Hannah went back to Afghanistan last week."

Brennan notices that he addresses the room as he speaks and still somehow manages to make her feel like he's keeping her out of it. No one else seems to notice though and Angela leads the way in condolences and it should be really awkward, but Angela's gift with people is just as good as Booth's in a slightly different way, and it all comes across as entirely genuine.

Minutes tick by and it feels like they've been talking forever, but that's generally the way it goes when a group of people are having a conversation in front of you and you've got nothing to contribute to it.

"Great. Let's all discuss Booth's failed relationship until we've thoroughly analysed every insignificant aspect of it. Because it clearly matters more than cause of death." She mutters to herself.

She's been making leaps and bounds in the sarcasm department. Unfortunately she says it a lot louder than she thinks she has – isn't that always the case? – and everyone goes silent. Everyone. Even Angela. She might as well have **bitch **tattooed across her forehead. But while she looks at Booth and sees a combination of fury and embarrassment, in Angela's face there is only understanding. Because Angela still _gets _her, and even though she believes now more than ever that love is ephemeral, if ever there comes a time when Angela is no longer her best friend, she is confident that she will always remember this moment and remember love. She will remember what it feels like to have one loyal friend when it seems everyone you know would rather you disappeared.

Booth grabs her arm as he passes – because he's private and uptight as usual and won't have this conversation in front of the team – and she cocks back her free arm and hits him in the face as hard as she can. Because they're back at the beginning again and he doesn't know not to try and control her and she doesn't know how to use her words.

No one intervenes. Angela saw this coming and Cam thinks he deserved it, and everyone else is too shell shocked to move.

It takes him precious seconds to speak as he compartmentalizes the pain and she knows he's itching to rub his jaw but he won't do it. She hopes she leaves a mark.

"Don't hit me." His voice is low with tightly lidded anger.

She ignores him. She may not do it as subtly as he does, but she damn well gets her point across.

"If we're done here, I have work to do." She makes brief eye contact with Angela, Hodgins and Cam. She doesn't bother with her interns. Maybe when they gossip about this amongst themselves later it will instil enough fear into the person who continuously leaves the drawers open in bone storage to inspire him or her to change. "Call me after the bones have been cleaned."

She steps gracefully around him – so gracefully it's almost like she steps _through _him, and that's the point, isn't it? – glides down the stairs and disappears into her office.

He follows her.

She half expected he would but she really doesn't know him anymore, no better than he knows her, so there's still a small degree of surprise when her office door opens and closes abruptly. Suddenly he's there and he's angry, but it's okay because this is her safe place, and she's been both "there" and kind of angry for a while now and he hasn't taken any notice.

At first she tries to ignore him and she types determinedly with lightning fingers across her keyboard. But then he's standing over her and glowering, and the fact that he's literally looking down on her irks her so she stands and leaves an inch of space between their faces – because with her heels on they are all but evenly matched – and she stares until she forces him to be the one that takes a step back.

"I'm going to keep trying. I _will _be happy."

"You're not happy, Booth." She suddenly sees him with crystal clarity. She looks into his eyes and she stares right into his metaphoric soul, and something about this moment sparks a revelation. "You haven't been happy for a very long time. If you had been, you wouldn't have put so much effort into figuratively shoving it down my throat."

"Everything just has to be about you, doesn't it?"

"When was the last time any of this was about me?" He gives her that blank face she's used to drawing from other people when something they believe to be absurd comes out of her mouth. The face she gets when it dawns on them that she's not normal. It makes her furious, because he's been giving her that look a lot recently and from someone who's had a pretty good grasp on her for years (this one excluded) it just doesn't make sense. "Don't look at me like that. I _know _you know what I'm talking about. Why do you _do _that?"

"What is this about, Temperance? Why are you so hell bent on making me miserable? You didn't want a relationship. And then I found someone else. And then you didn't want me with them-

"I never once said-

"You didn't have to!" He yells. "I know your face! I _saw _it!"

"And so you're punishing me?" She yells back. "I was nice to her. I never did anything vindictively. What you're doing now is cruel."

"It sucks, doesn't it?"

"Is that what this is about?" She laughs incredulously. Nothing about this is funny, but she can't help it. She supposes it's probably yet another human adaptation that's been ingrained in her DNA to help her survive. "I crushed your heart, so you're crushing mine?"

"Don't act like a victim. It's your own fault that-

"No. No, this is not all my fault, Booth!"

Something inside her breaks and now she's not just trying to provoke a reaction from him. Because he's about to go back to that night. It _always _goes back to that night. And she is done beating herself up about it. They missed a moment, but she's come to realize that they've missed a lot of moments over the years and before, they always came back together. The centre always held. Even when they were awkward and she was dating his boss and he was dating a biologist that looked vaguely like her, they held. She has realized that they always held because both of them wanted to hold, even when they were scared and confused, and when one half of the centre simply stops giving a damn, _that _is when things fall apart.

She's ready to be honest about that night even though they've never really talked about it; the whole unit has already shattered into a million pieces. She has nothing left to lose.

"I was scared, and I acted irrationally, but you… you changed _everything_. You were the best friend I ever had, Booth. We stopped having dinner and you never texted me jokes, you started talking to me the way I see you talk to people you're meeting for the first time… and maybe I wouldn't have noticed that before, but I _did_ notice, because you used to talk to me like I was different in a _good_ way. Like I was special. How could you have thought that wouldn't matter to me?"

"All you had to do was say 'yes.' I spent five years waiting for you!"

He gets it. Some part of him _must _be getting it. And she thinks maybe he's intentionally missing her point and clinging to this defence for the same reason he tries so hard to convince everyone he was happy. So she keeps pushing. Because he pushed first and if she can't live safely in denial – denial of her feelings for him, of feelings in general – then he doesn't get to either. _He _will be the one beating himself up over _his _monumental screw ups from here on in, and maybe then he can stop throwing _that _night in her face.

"You're the one who's supposed to have faith for both of us. Can you count the number of times we've had dinner together? Drank together? Talked until sunrise? You want to talk about that night, Booth? You believe in the existence of some omnipotent, supernatural being you've never seen, and yet you saw me _every __day_, you _knew_ me, and you couldn't do the same. You've never stopped believing in God; not when you were tortured overseas, not when people you loved died, not when you were a degenerate gambler… how could I have known you would stop believing in me? How could I have known you would stop believing in _love_? How could I have known?"

He doesn't answer her. He hides behind that face again, and this time she can't even bring herself to be upset about it. Because she _knows_ he understands her. She knows she's making sense. And that's enough for her. Her part in this is over. She's pretty sure that _they _are over. And she has nothing left in her to try and give.

"Get out of my office, Booth," she says. And it's only now that her voice has quieted to normal that she realizes she has been screaming. "I think we need a break from each other."

He slams the door behind him and the blinds tumble off the wall as the glass flexes and shudders, and she sees everyone in the lab staring back at her and she knows that they have heard every word. All of her and Booth's dirty laundry out in the air for her co-workers to judge. And she thinks that maybe there's a little bit of stoic Dr. Brennan left in her after all, because as they stare, she doesn't feel a thing.

* * *

When she opens her e-mail there's a message waiting for her from Booth. It's the first he's spoken to her in a week, and while one would think that seven days would provide enough time for her to be ready for a discussion, she's back to feeling angry. Booth, however, has no apparent hang-ups.

_Dear Bones,_

_Just wanted to remind you about our session with Sweets today. Also, I don't know which loud mouth squint told him about Hannah, but he knows and he apparently thinks that means we need two sessions a week for the next little while. Brutal, right? I know we haven't talked since we had our little argument, but I wanted to give you a heads up. Meet you there. Let me know when the DNA results come in for our case._

_Booth_

She's wondering how she didn't see through this before. How she had let Booth's faux cheer and plastic smile confuse her into thinking she was picking up on something that just wasn't there. Back when she had still thought that if enough time passed they could just fall back to the way they were and she had asked, "What's wrong?" and he had smiled back, "Why would you think there was something wrong?" and she had assumed that she had got the emotional interpretation wrong again.

And with a sinking feeling she realizes that had always been his intention. He has taken advantage of the way she trusts him to tell the truth.

She hits reply on the e-mail and begins to type.

_Dear Booth,_

_I hate you. I hate you I hate you I hate you. You're a terrible friend and an even worse human being. You should be glad there is no God, because if there was one you would go straight to hell._

_From, Temperance_

She stares at the screen and then she hits backspace and watches the words disappear one character at a time. In the end she doesn't reply to the e-mail, and she doesn't show up for the session with Sweets. Because what's the point?

* * *

She goes home at eight o'clock that evening but she gets restless in her apartment and she's back at the Jeffersonian by nine. She turns all the lights on in the lab and she immediately feels tranquility settle in; she's home here and she loves her work. A lot of things have changed in the months since she returned to D.C., but her love of her job has been a constant.

She chooses a box from bone storage with care and brings it back upstairs to the steel table, and everything is wonderful until she reaches into her coat pocket for her ipod and comes up empty. With a frown she sets her coat back on its hook and begins rifling through her purse, but it's not there either. It's docked in her living room.

Brennan sighs and then heads to Angela's office where she borrows a stereo that she's pretty sure belongs to Hodgins. She peruses Angela's small stack of CD's, but everything is either unappealing or unfamiliar so she resigns herself to the radio – even though she _hates _all the commercials and all the talking – and heads back to the platform.

For seventy three minutes exactly, things run smoothly. By minute eleven she's past her irritation with the seven minutes of commercials between songs, by minute twenty six it's all just background noise, by minute thirty two her mind is free of Booth, and by minute thirty four she enters that zone where she probably won't look up again or note the passing of time for another six hours.

Then at minute seventy four Cyndi Lauper comes on without warning and starts singing _that _song.

It brings Brennan back to her surroundings and for a split second she freezes, but it never takes rational thought long to return to her and after a beat she simply snaps off her gloves, picks up the remote control and tries to change the station.

The batteries in the remote are dead and nothing happens. And then that slow rage starts building. She calmly packs her bones back in their box and sets it aside, but the anger has already begun to fester and it's like when she pushed Jared off that bar stool or when she hit Heather Taffet with that briefcase; eventually it's going to go somewhere. But she hasn't really clued in to that yet.

So she puts aside her box and she approaches the stereo, and she tries to change the station manually. But Murphy's Law – which isn't even a real law – is in its prime tonight and nothing happens. Nothing. Even the power button won't work and she's stuck in _Girls Just Wanna Have Fun _hell.

_That's all they really want, some fun; when the working day is done, girls-_

Unplugging it would be sensible, but that's not what she does. Without any outward trace of emotion Brennan picks up a chair and she smashes it against the stereo as hard as she can. Crash. There is a satisfying shower of parts but it isn't anywhere near enough. So she lifts that chair above her head and she brings it down over and over again. Smash. Smash. Smash. She brings it down one final time, and the modern glass table shatters. What remains of the stereo falls to the cold floor and, winded, she lets her weapon drop from her hands to join the chaos.

That's when she notices the blood pooling amidst the debris. She frowns as she searches for the source, but when she takes notice of the split metal piping in the chair, she immediately shifts her gaze to her palms and finds her answer. The metal has given way under the force of her swing, and the fleshy inside of her hand has been cut by its jagged edge. She eyes the damage with disgust and hurries off the platform to collect the proper cleaning supplies.

* * *

She's already doused her palm mercilessly with hydrogen peroxide and bandaged it, and she's rifling through supplies when she thinks she hears a voice.

"_Bones!"_

She frowns and straightens from her position bent over the industrial disinfectants she has been gathering for the platform floor.

"_Temperance!"_

There is no mistaking it that time. Booth's voice. She suddenly understands people's propensity for melodramatic comparatives, because at the moment she believes that given a choice between merely seeing Booth and a conversation with Sweets about the supposed legitimacy of psychology in the scientific realm, she would prefer Sweets. Simply hearing Booth's voice re-fans the rage that caused her to turn on Hodgins' stereo in the first place. Brennan slams the bottle back in its place and storms toward the noise.

The sound of her heels must catch his attention, because he comes running out of her office, gun drawn, as she turns the corner. She doesn't flinch.

"Put that away," she glowers. "What do you want?"

"What do I- there's blood and glass everywhere up there. I thought something happened to you."

"Well, obviously I'm fine. I cut myself on the chair leg after I forced it through the table. Why are you here?"

"Angela said-

"Angela needs to learn how to mind her own business. If it's not about a case, you can go." She hisses.

Booth bristles. "What is your deal? You wouldn't just go destroying pieces of valuable equipment without a good reason."

He's talking to her as if the conversation in her office never happened. As if there's nothing wrong between them. She almost prefers the broody and cruel version of him from last week, because at least it was honest. Now he's just heaping fuel on the fire.

"Who are you to say what I would or wouldn't do, Booth? You have _no _idea. _None_."

"What happened? Is it your dad? Russ?"

"It's _you_." She explodes. Months and months of suppression and compartmentalization. She can't do it anymore. And that's yet another reason to hate him, because if he had just left her alone in the beginning this wouldn't be a problem now. But he pushed and pushed and pushed and now she doesn't know how to find her way back to who she used to be. "It's _you_, Booth. You started _all _this. And I will never, never forgive you. We're done."

"So it's my fault you went postal on the platform," he clarifies with a dubious smirk.

And then Brennan lets go of Seeley Booth. Because the man who befriended her would never act so callously after that kind of an emotional outpouring. Once again, they're back at the beginning. _Oh, you hate me. What are you, ten years old? I'm not your dad. _She thinks of the e-mail, of the way she has become so accustomed to trusting Booth's social cues that she has been second guessing herself and trying _so _hard to filter her thoughts, and she almost wants to hit him again but can't be bothered. _He _is the one with the problems. And he is no longer a concern of hers. She would have done anything for the Booth that gave her Jasper and Brainy smurf and taught her empathy and showed her the beauty of love and friendship and family. But that Booth never came back from Afghanistan, and this one is nothing to her.

"Yes," she seethes. "Everything you touch, you destroy. You think you did me this big favour by becoming a part of my life, but what have you really done, Booth? Before I met you, I was happy in my own way. I dated, I had Zack, I travelled the world… and you know what? I'm partially to blame for losing those things, but you _ruined _one of the best parts of my childhood. And I wish I had never met you."

He's quiet now. He's wiped that pretentious, _I understand you better than you understand you _look from his face and he seems to be finally recognizing that they aren't "bickering." There are no undertones of affection or respect this time around. It's about time he gets it. And she's the one who's supposedly emotionally handicapped. What a joke.

"_Girls Just Want to Have Fun_ came on the radio. And for the first time in a very long time, hearing it didn't make me afraid. It didn't bring me back to that Karaoke bar and crush my heart. It made me _furious_. That memory was mine and my mother's; I don't have many of her and you took that one away from me."

He's frozen in stark confusion and she smirks, because for once he is the one emotionally in the dark and it gives her satisfaction to see him struggle. Just like that moment last week, she feels like she can see through him; she has finally managed to catch up to Booth in the one way he was always better than her. Even if her insight is fueled by anger and probably only temporary.

"The song started playing and instead of hairbrush-microphone, makeshift concerts in my bedroom with a woman who loved me, I think of blood and chaos in a shitty bar. And it _still _makes me furious because _you're not worth it_. If I had kept that memory to myself, you would still be the way you are now, but I would have Cyndi Lauper. I would have the vestiges of a me before Christmas without parents and the distinctive darkness that comes with being locked in the trunk of a car!"

"Bones…" He starts to move forward but even he can recognize the danger that glints in her eyes. They are darker than he's ever seen them before, and the unfamiliarity of it all stops him in his tracks.

Her resolve strengthens and that deadly, deadly fury pulses brighter inside her. She doesn't hide from the emotional intensity anymore; she welcomes it. Because maybe this degree of rage isn't rational, but it's sure as hell making her feel like she can do anything.

"Don't." Her voice is just above a whisper, but it is jaded and abrupt, and through it he knows he will never touch her again. "Don't you dare ever call me that again. My name is Dr. Temperance Brennan, and you will address me as such. We are not friends."

She turns on her heel to storm back to the solvents in the other room… there's still a mess to be cleaned. Blood is very difficult to adequately remove; she knows this better than most. But it's not impossible. Not for her.

Booth trails behind her but he doesn't make the mistake of touching her again, and that's good and bad at the same time. Because on the one hand he's learning, but on the other hand, remember earlier when she said she couldn't be bothered to hit him? That isn't quite true. Or maybe it _was _true, then, but now she's itching for him to give her a justifiable reason to punch him just one more time.


	2. Chapter 2

Soo it's been longer than a week. My bad. I really did have good intentions, but in the interest of fairness I was determined to watch episodes three through present before I got down to it, and due to a lot of feet-dragging I didn't get that done until yesterday night. I'm still feeling pretty irritated with Booth, but I've gotten over my episode two inspired rage and I'm making an attempt to be a little more objective with this one. It didn't come to me quite as naturally and immediately as the first part did, so hopefully it still goes over okay. Your reviews for the last chapter went totally over what I expected, so thank you all.

Sidenote; I can deal with Hannah (I actually quite like her) but I am getting tired of seeing half naked/naked Daisy. And the fact that she's got a real ID card now depresses me, since over the summer I fantasized about her staying in Maluku forever just about as often as I fantasized about some real Booth/Brennan resolution. Ughh.

* * *

_This overwhelming urge.  
Toward you I feign disinterest  
while I covet the attention,  
while I crave your affection.  
Ravenous with lust;  
Jackal in heat, spit dripping.  
This mechanical impulse knows not loyalty or mercy._

_**Animal, **__Against Me!_

A month passes. Long ago this would have been considered a significant passing of time, but that was then; before Afghanistan and Maluku and Hannah and abrupt personality shifts and weeks without speaking even when they weren't in the midst of an actual fight. That was before they became more like acquaintances or cubicle buddies in an office. This is now. And a month passes within the blink of an eye.

Brennan tries to bury herself in her work, Booth tries to run his body into the ground, and neither of them can come close to escaping the other.

It's ten thirty at night and Booth's jogging through the city. He observes the passing public and catalogues vehicle proximities without conscious effort… it's years of behaviour so fiercely ingrained that it's long since become natural. He rolls his eyes when some young kid running in the opposite direction gets tangled up with a bike he probably would have heard coming were it not for the headphones blaring into his ears. Seeley Booth doesn't take an iPod with him with he runs; partially it's because they limit his awareness of his surroundings but mostly it's because he thinks any self respecting guy should have the discipline to run without a secondary source setting the tempo.

His thoughts turn to Brennan – the way they always do eventually – and he picks up the pace, but he's already reached that phase three times since he left his apartment and while he's undoubtedly in good shape, he can't sprint at full speed forever. So he gives up on not thinking about Brennan and resigns himself to her ever-near presence in his head.

They're a mess. They've been a mess for a long time. And when he replays past exchanges between them sometimes he can see her faults and sometimes he can see his, but he can't find the exact moment he started to lose his grip on everything from her to Hannah to suspects and witnesses. The moment his Pandora's box sprung open and his inability to promptly slam the lid shut sent his carefully controlled universe hurtling into chaos. He has no more patience. He's angry about eighty percent of the time that people are talking to him. He can't be bothered to charm and cajole suspects that are probably guilty anyway and his partner is driving him up the friggen wall. And the thing is he _knows_ she's doing it on purpose. She's not that sheltered anymore. And maybe in the past he would have watched her carefully to discern exactly why she's acting like she's fresh out of the lab, but they've grown so far apart he can't manage to be anything but irritated.

They had started out rough when they returned but by the time they caught the Shore case he had worked to restore a balance of sorts. He had been more or less successful fooling himself into believing he could make it work. In fooling Brennan and the squints that he could have Hannah as his girlfriend and Brennan as his partner and be happy. But Hannah was shot and it was like Cam being in the hospital all those years ago all over again. Because he had seen it as his job to protect her and he hated that he hadn't been there. And yet, once he had been certain Hannah would recover, he could not, could_ not _banish that tiny part of him that had twisted up when he had looked at Brennan and imagined _her _being the one in that hospital bed. And the weight of that guilt had been overwhelming. In that moment, denial had come off the table.

He had woken up every morning to that niggling guilt, that niggling _fact _that when the shit hits the fan, he's still relieved to see Brennan okay because the thought of something happening to her is devastating. He had wild sex with his girlfriend and it was like Brennan was sitting in the corner watching, smirking, _knowing _what he had known. That Cam wasn't the one back then and Hannah couldn't be the one now. She will always be first, and he will never be happy.

He can't look at her. He can't talk to her. He can't listen to her squint speak or watch the way her eyes light up when she finds something particularly clever or fascinating. And he finds himself doing anything to limit that intimacy they used to share because the truth of it all is he just can't handle it anymore. And he sees he hurts her, but he pushes it to the back of his mind right there with _that _fact. And it's the first thing he thinks about in the morning and the last thing he thinks about at night and it jumps to the front of his head a million times in the hours between, but there's a desperate part of the Booth he used to be – the one who was purposefully optimistic and chose to indulge positive thinking because isn't the world dark enough already without intentionally looking for sewage? – that clings to the idea that if he fakes it enough, eventually, _eventually _he _has _to make it.

He thinks of her in a skeleton leotard and a red tutu, and she looks _ridiculous_. But she's vibrant and cheery and she has that open, light-hearted face she gets when she finally breaches layers of logic and self consciousness and just _plays _the way she should have been able to do for a lot longer than her childhood allowed her. He sees the way a juvenile magic trick producing a simple flower delights her. _Look, Booth! _And the fact that the little things she does are done so completely unwittingly, with no thought to the effect she has on him, just fills Booth with a rage that's equal parts for her and for himself.

It's been a month and they're no better than they had been the night she accused him of ruining her life. He's been trying really hard to think of that as a tantrum, but her words keep circling his head and he knows she rarely says things she doesn't mean. Regardless of whether she currently feels the same way she did then, there's no doubt in his mind that at that moment she meant every word.

Running doesn't do any good anymore. Booth finds himself eight miles away from his apartment and he still feels every bit as antsy as he had when he first left. He takes a brief moment to covet her ability to compartmentalize. He's willing to bet she's immersed in some long dead skeleton of blah blah blah from the blah blah era and having a grand old time. It's yet another thing that doesn't seem quite fair.

With a sigh, Booth turns down the next alley and doubles back to his apartment. He's punished his body enough for one day and it's about time he acknowledges that there's only one thing he can do that will slow his mind down enough to let him get a decent night's sleep.

* * *

Booth's constant presence in the lab had never really been necessary. That's another one of the many things Brennan's realized this year. She knows she took it for granted before. Mostly she's glad she hasn't seen him in a while but partially she wishes she had appreciated his visits more back when he was him and she was her and they were them. She's not even angry anymore… there's just this not-so-little spot somewhere inside of her that aches all the time. But it's like the seasonal asthma and the shin splints and the joints that stiffen before rain… she's growing accustomed to it. She can live with it. It's not going to kill her. Obviously.

And she still has Angela. Angela, who isn't quite the same as when she left either, but is still her friend. Angela, who is not going to leave her because she – to quote Angela directly – loves her unique ass way too much. She's pretty sure Angela wasn't being literal. She hopes she wasn't. Either way she's been talking to Angela a lot this month.

"_Do you think it was my fault?" She asks. Angela's pulled the Hoover debacle out of her and she feels a strange relief at this new ability to analyze the events with an impartial party. Although it's not like she could have continued keeping it to herself; she and Booth couldn't have made their last "conversation" more public if they had taken out a billboard._

"_I think that he waited for you for as long as he could." Angela says slowly. "It's not about fault, Bren. At the end of the day there are still two people who used to love each other who now can't be in the same room without getting physical."_

_Brennan drops her head. "You think I shouldn't have hit him."_

"_We're in our thirties, Bren. You're getting a little old to be hitting people when they make you angry. Even when they deserve it."_

The knock on the door startles her slightly, because it's late and no one except Booth ever really dropped by unannounced and it's been months since he's shown up at her door without a precursory call or text. She's still dressed in the jeans and silk shirt she wore to work, because she just can't can't can't relax enough to change and she's been contemplating heading back to the Jeffersonian again tonight anyway. But the soft knocking begins again and she sighs, unfolds herself from the chair, places her full mug of tea on the coffee table and heads for the door.

Brennan swings the door open without checking the peephole – doesn't she always? – and there's another one of those moments where the situation is so unfamiliar and uncomfortable she can't do anything but freeze. Booth stands in front of her and he's shifting his weight from foot to foot like he's half expecting her to take a swing at him, and then she's not so frozen anymore and she leans uncooperatively against the doorframe. Just because there's a not-so-little part of her that misses him doesn't mean he deserves to be let in without question.

"Hello."

The word falls awkwardly off her tongue, because it's the polite, normal thing to say but it somehow still doesn't seem to quite fit. If Angela were here Brennan would ask her if there's perhaps a greeting more appropriately suited for a friend-that's-not-really-a-friend-anymore-even-though-you-can't-quite-make-yourself-stop-missing-him.

"Hey."

He doesn't know what to call her anymore. He's lost the privilege of 'Bones,' and 'Brennan' always takes them back to the coma dream. 'Dr. Brennan' sounds simultaneously aggressive and defensive coming from him and 'Temperance' is far too intimate. 'Tempe' isn't even an option. There was really only one name that ever felt natural – even if it was initially an irritant – and they both feel its loss.

Booth hasn't brought food and she's immediately grateful for that. Because they're past that point and if she had been greeted with pizza or Thai she has no doubt that she would have turned around and slammed the door in his face. They can barely eat in a group setting anymore; attempting to force the former familiarity of three AM takeout binges would have desecrated every good memory she has.

So no, he doesn't bring takeout. Instead, Booth pulls a bottle of tequila from his coat and silently holds it out for her to see. Because in the beginning, before he saved her life and she saved his, before they sang Poco together and he knew about dolphins and she knew about his list, he needed alcohol to find the courage to have a difficult conversation with her. And they've never been closer to that place than they are right now.

They share a look and for once they're on the same wavelength. Their gazes are solemn and already a little defeated, and they both know that this will be another defining moment. Because the last time they did this it nearly ruined them, and while in that specific instance a year apart enabled them to begin repairing the damage, prolonged separations haven't done a thing for them since. Maybe they've matured too much. Maybe they haven't matured enough. Either way, when he pulls out that bottle they both know that what happens tonight will be final. Catch fire, or…

She shrugs with forced indifference and continues the silence, stepping out of the doorway and walking into the apartment. She doesn't look to see if he's following her and he doesn't expect her to, so there's still some semblance of normalcy in that. He immediately goes to the couch and moves her tea mug to the mantle, and she goes to the kitchen to find shot glasses.

When she pulls two down from the top shelf in the cabinet beside her sink she rests them on the counter without relinquishing her grip and she stares off into space trying to quantify the strange feeling of wrong-ness that has settled within her. And then she gets it. Statistically they drink for pleasure in bars and they drink to forget in their apartments, and while shot glasses are just fine for the Founding Fathers, in their apartments they've always seemed superfluous because really, why bother when you _know _you're going to consume the whole bottle regardless? But that was then and this is now, and their mouths can't be anywhere near each other anymore. Passing the bottle back and forth is out of the question.

That not-so-little-spot-that-aches-all-the-time pulses brighter, and Brennan determinedly tightens her hold on the glasses and marches into her living room with her jaw clenched tight.

Booth's eyes follow her warily when she returns because he's not sure what changed in the twenty seconds she had been in the kitchen, but he clearly sees that her mask of indifference has fallen away and she looks pissed.

He doesn't give her time to start yelling at him. He twists the cap off the sealed top and fills the two shot glasses to the brim with a steady hand. She glares, but she sits down on the couch beside him – careful, oh so careful to keep a full cushion between them – and reaches for the glass nearest her.

They down the shots fluidly and without ceremony then slam the glasses back on the coffee table in one synchronized motion.

"I can't stand cats. They're unpredictable and they creep me out."

In another time the confession might have been humorous and at the very least it would have teased an indignant response from her, because cats are elegant and independent and she likes them very much. Tonight all she can do is stare at him incredulously. Because seriously? That's the best he can do?

Booth pours two more shots and again they down them quickly, and then he watches her expectantly and she realizes that it's her turn to make a statement. Only it doesn't seem fair because why should she have to say anything at all?

"The most pleasurable public sex I ever had took place in the back of an ice-cream truck." She puts forth petulantly.

She's trying to make him uncomfortable and she stares steadily into his face. She's expecting an irritated sigh or a frustrated quip or at the very least a deep flush. When he takes her words in stride and simply refills their shots she tentatively concludes he has some sort of plan in mind and decides to give him the benefit of a doubt. At least for the next few rounds.

Shot.

Slam.

"The first goal I ever scored as a kid was in my own team's net."

Shot.

Slam.

"Russ once convinced me to do his math assignment for him and I felt so guilty afterward that I vomited."

The pattern continues. Shot. Confession. Shot. Confession. There's none of the mounting pressure she had felt when she first opened the door. They're in no hurry and he's being patient in a way that reminds her slightly of the old Booth even though his face is still far too serious and his tone is still far too guarded for her to truly believe anything's really changing. The small confessions continue and as the bottle empties the statements become more revealing and less dinner-party-anecdote.

She learns that his last baby tooth was knocked out by his father after Jared spilled grape juice on the carpet and he took the blame, he learns that she was suspended from school for a week in the eleventh grade for breaking a classmate's arm after another classmate locked the two of them in a custodial closet.

Booth had started indulging small defiances soon after the grape juice incident, because he had concluded that if he was going to get smacked around either way, it was easier to handle knowing he had explicitly done something to deserve it.

Brennan had clammed up and starkly refused to explain her seemingly excessive, violent panic in that dark confined space after Jamie Kirkland had been taken to the hospital and she had been escorted to the principal's office. While before she had been invisible to her peers, from that day on she was pointedly avoided.

Kids are cruel and so are parents. These are old lessons.

They both have a fairly high tolerance for alcohol but these past months have been emotionally exhausting and they're not in peak condition. By three quarters of the way through the bottle Brennan's head is swimming and Booth's hand is no longer quite so steady. Alcohol sloshes over the rims of the shot glasses and creates sticky puddles on her expensive coffee table, and neither of them care.

After the next shot Brennan tells him that whenever her mind isn't fully occupied by work, it drifts to what a mistake it was to leave the way she did (and yes, she definitely now recognizes it as a mistake). It's something they probably both already know but she feels the need to say it aloud anyway. And then she takes the bottle away from him and pours the next shots because she needs to be able to focus on _something_. The shots go down just as easily as all the ones before and Booth tells her that every few months he still dreams that they're married.

She sits back in her seat and watches Booth slowly try to keep all the alcohol in the glasses this time around after she admits that their guy hugs always made her illogically feel as if everything wrong in her life maybe wasn't so bad, and after the next shot the air becomes charged and even in her intoxicated state – because at this point, she's definitely intoxicated – her stomach fills with dread. Booth is fiddling with his empty shot glass, turning it over and over in his hands, and the restlessness of the action lets her know that the rules are changing and the game is no longer safe.

"I've been trying so hard to hate you." He admits softly.

And while he's being honest, it stings just the same and to her horror she feels tears beginning to prick the back of her eyes. "_Why_?" She asks, because it's the only word that she can manage and even it hurts to force out because her throat keeps trying to close. "_Why?_"

The game ends. Up until this point they have been accepting the confessions of the other with silence, and when she questions him they can no longer hide behind it. It's probably a good thing… there are only a couple shots of tequila left anyway.

"I really was happy with Hannah for a while. It was good between us… and then we came back and I couldn't help being angry with you for complicating that."

Part of Brennan longs for a time when she simply felt nothing, because this see-saw between rage and heartbreak is draining her dry. His words make her stomach flip and she clenches her fists reflexively and it's like that moment on the platform just before she struck him, but she tucks her hands under her thighs and forces back the impulse because Angela's right and she really is too old to be hitting people. Unless they're sociopaths with creepy serial killer hands. Through an alcohol induced fog she struggles to put words to what she's feeling and hopes that this time things will be different.

"I never hurt you on purpose. I realize now that saying 'no' to protect you, to save us, displayed extreme naiveté and that my fear caused more damage than I would have thought possible, but I didn't _want _any of that to happen. I didn't know it would. There was _never _a moment in which I deliberately contemplated what I could say or do to cause you injury, and then set about to act on it. And you did. You _knew _what you were doing and you… and I can't understand… I don't understand why. You were my friend." The words stumble off her lips and she cringes at the blatant vulnerability oozing off of her, but she can't help it. "You were my friend."

While she's wishing they hadn't consumed quite so much liquor, Booth is wishing that they had a little more. Because there isn't any way to try and explain this without appearing petty and cruel. And maybe that's because the truth is he was both.

"It was a struggle being around you. And you were so oblivious to how hard it was for me… sometimes I just wanted to shake you. I know what I did wasn't right; your feelings are important and dismissing them was very, very wrong, but I just couldn't find it in me to pretend I was okay anymore. I wasn't okay. I'm still not okay. You broke my heart."

"I'm sorry."

Her tone is emphatic and utterly sincere and he knows she means it, but he also knows she still doesn't quite understand.

"Things couldn't stay the same." He says gently, and her heart squeezes again because she's forgotten how it feels to have him be genuine with her, and now everything hurts even more. "It wasn't fair for you to expect them to. I couldn't be with you without _being _with you anymore."

"Why wouldn't you explain that to me?"

"I guess I was just a little tired of explaining things like that to you. I didn't feel like it should have to be my job anymore. I can't hold your hand forever, Temperance. You have to try a little on your own. You can't expect people to just give you all the answers."

She flushes, because at the top of the list of things she has realized she took for granted lies his patience. And then she's confused because friendship, as explained to her by Angela and Booth, has always been corner-stoned by love and patience and acceptance. So where exactly did it all go wrong?

She's regretting the alcohol immensely now because it's amplifying her emotions and she suddenly wants to just curl up in a ball and cry. But she won't do it. She sits quietly and tries to focus her thoughts and quantify her emotions but everything's swirling around too quickly and it takes her a lot longer than she knows it should.

"You pushed me out of the nest, Booth. And it wasn't fair." Brennan says finally. Booth raises his eyebrows at the surprisingly adequate metaphor and she swallows before continuing. "You didn't even give me any warning. You just stopped talking to me and then you got angry when I crashed instead of flying. I was trying to keep things the same and I didn't know it was the exact opposite of what you wanted."

And then he gets it. He gets it and he can't _believe _it didn't click before. But before he had been dead set on _not _thinking about her point of view so the miss really shouldn't be as shocking as it seems. Brennan appreciates stability. She finds a routine and she adheres to it. She makes a joke that causes him to laugh and she repeats it over and over, expecting to elicit the same reaction from him every time. And the more distant he's become the more clinical and literal she's become in turn because she's been trying to push him back into his role. When she does things like call love an idiot he's supposed to give speeches on the validity of emotions, and when she goes on squinty tangents he's supposed to be amused and crack a silly joke. She's been repeating past behaviour in an effort to provoke the same reaction. She's been begging him to reassure her that they're still okay. That their relationship is solid. That somehow, the vestiges of the centre will hold.

The whole situation is so fucked up he can't even begin to process it. But while he's still reeling from this sudden revelation Brennan continues talking.

"I don't like the control you have over me." She says carefully. "I never noticed before you… before. You can make me feel normal, and worthy, and funny, and _good _on the inside, but you can also make me feel very very small. That is not a feeling I enjoy."

There are a lot of responses Booth can give; some of them explanatory, some of them apologetic. But they're drunk and emotionally exhausted and they're _talking _which is such a good sign he is willing to believe there will be opportunity to convince her that opening herself up – even if she gets burned occasionally – is always worth it, some other time. Some other time when they're sober and he's feeling that truth a little more strongly. For now, he settles on picking up the tequila and evenly distributing two more shots.

Brennan eyes the shot glass warily but she dutifully knocks it back at the same time he does and then waits for him to make the next move.

"I'm sorry." He says, and he hopes it's enough because he's spent and he doesn't have anything else to give at this exact second.

She nods and refills their glasses, even though she shudders a little before they throw them back as her body tries to discourage her from pouring in any more poison.

"I forgive you."

Booth takes control of the bottle once again and they repeat the cycle.

"When we're back on solid ground, I'm going to ask you on a date."

There's next to nothing left in the bottle now but Brennan picks it up anyway and drains it evenly between the two glasses. It amounts to less than a quarter shot each but it's fine because it's the ritual itself and the absolute truth it has come to represent that matters at this point.

"When we're 'back on solid ground,' I'm going to accept."

* * *

The sun's coming up now and they've moved to her balcony. It's been six hours since Brennan first opened her door and granted Booth entry and the world looks exactly the same way it had the day before, but as they take in the morning through an inebriated haze they feel the stirrings of change and know that they are different.

He puts a hand on her hip and draws her to his side, and it's awkward and they both immediately feel it, but they've been nothing _but _awkward recently so it's to be expected. It's awkward, but it's a start. Maybe tomorrow he'll try again and it will still be awkward, but maybe it won't. They have time to find themselves again and after everything that's already happened a month or two of transition isn't going to break them.

He doesn't move his hand and when she turns her gaze away from the city skyline to find his face it's a tense mask of solid determination. He _will _make them work again. And so she decides that she can show him that she's determined too. She can show him that this means enough to her to give it one last try even though she can still feel that smarting not-so-little-spot aching away in her chest. She drops her head on his shoulder and it feels exactly the opposite of the comfortable way it used to, but it's a process and they'll get there. Eventually.

"Hey Bones?"

"Yes?"

The moniker falls easily from his lips onto her ears, and they're both so concentrated on braving the new awkwardness in order to get back to a good thing that they take no notice of the natural exchange. But maybe that's for the best because effort is important and they've always taken it for granted that they can pick up their pieces and glue them back together with relative ease. They can't afford to take anything for granted this time around. So he automatically calls her by a name that appears nowhere on _either _of her birth certificates, and she automatically responds, and they are both a step closer to 'eventually' though neither of them know it.

"You wanna go to the diner and grab some breakfast? We're going to need all the coffee and grease we can get if we plan on being mostly sober in time for work."

She's fairly certain neither one of them is making it to work this morning – not entirely sober, anyway – regardless of how much food and coffee they consume in the next two hours, but she chooses to keep that thought to herself. He's making a gesture and she can recognize it as such. Progress.

"I would like that very much."

An hour later they're still leaning over her balcony and Booth's come to the same realisation Brennan has and calls work, letting them know he'll be in at noon. Brennan calls Cam and does the same. It's soon after this that the buzzes begin to wear off and leave Brennan with the beginnings of what promises to be a monumental headache, and Booth slouching further against the railing while shielding his eyes from the increasingly bright sunlight.

"This was the worst idea I've ever had." Booth mutters.

Brennan almost laughs but even thinking about doing so hurts her head and it's not even that funny. Not really. It's just one of those things that are humorous solely because Booth's said them and it's something she associates with _her _Booth so the thought warms her.

"We do look quite 'haggard,' as you like to say." She admits.

"Like Clark Kent and Wonder Woman after a really, really bad date." He offers with a small smile.

Brennan smiles back tentatively. She knows she's not traditionally funny, but she likes that she can amuse Booth. She always has. And maybe he didn't laugh when she answered his case question in German or when she talked of localised blizzards, but Clark Kent and Wonder Woman having a bad date still makes him smile and that counts for something.

When his hand falls to the small of her back as they pass through the french doors into her living room it's awkward again and, again, they both immediately feel it. When they reach the diner and he opens the door and repeats the motion it's _still _awkward, but they're determined. And when they both head straight to their spot in the back corner – a spot they haven't frequented as a twosome nearly as often since they came back – it's like an action carried out through muscle memory and neither of them actively take notice. It's progress. And so they settle into their new-old seats and place their orders and he explains to her that "Beiber Fever" is not in fact at all deadly or contagious or even a real fever, and though they don't know it yet they've take a second step forward.

By the time they leave they're enduring full on hangovers and as they walk slowly Booth accuses her of being a bad influence on him – because he's too old to be going to work hungover and the only time it ever happens is with her – and Brennan gives him an indignant shove.

It's not at all awkward and just like that they're three steps in, and they're both suffering too much to take active notice. Progress.


End file.
